


son of war

by Trekkele



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU Setup, Gen, Joseph Rogers is the son of an irish goddess, PJO concept crossover, gods are made, not born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:38:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekkele/pseuds/Trekkele
Summary: He is the last son of the Morrigan{His father dies, soul still half on the battlefield, her name clawing its way down his throat one last time.“Ya’can’t run from war, son. He whispers. Ya’can’t run from that which made yeh.”}Steve Rogers died as a Captain. He wakes up as something else.





	son of war

**Author's Note:**

> A main concept in the Percy Jackson series is that god's are created by belief. So a man who never really dies, but fades into legends, could conceivably, given enough time, become a god. That's the main concept here.  
> I am not irish, but nothing much here is used but the Morrigan's name, and even then not really. No disrespect is meant.

 

His father dies, soul still half on the battlefield, her name clawing its way down his throat one last time.

“Ya’can’t run from war, son. He whispers. Ya’can’t run from that which made yeh.”

 

And he knows this. He knows it like the blood on his fist is not his own, and the blood on his teeth is. He know it like he knows he should pray for peace, _father, grant us your reprieve._

 

 _Grant us your sword, mother, grant us your anger and fire and_ heart

 

He knows it as he feels the storms carrying battle cries move across the ocean, he knows it because he hears war sing through his blood in the way nothing else ever has.

He knows it because bloody teeth, bloody knuckles, blood on the floor, makes him smile sharper than a man ever should.

 

He marches. He should’ve died, forgotten in an underground lab, but he hears his father's  mother whisper over his own screams and his blood is singing, singing, _singing_. So he marches.

 

Men march with him and behind him and for him and he knows the old gods watch as new legends die.

 

The old gods are dead. The old gods rise. The old gods whisper among themselves.

 

But he marches.

 

They speak of him, he knows, because his blood still sings and no one should be pleased at war, no one should bring chaos to an art form, but he is an artist trained in fists by his brother and a boy who shields those weaker and a man who whispers turn into a god.

 

He should have died. He did. But than the whispers start, more than he ever heard in his lifetime, more than his men had ever said.

 

 _Call the captain_ . He marches with us. _Call the captain_. He stands with us.

 

And given time, the captain comes. He thinks it’s only dreams at first. Then he sees the battlefields change and the faces change and the weapons change but the prayers do not.

 

May the captain guide you home.

 

 _Call the Captain_ becomes a battle cry. _For the Captain!_ Come on boys! _Make the Captain proud!_

 

And the Captain marches with them.

 

He’s trapped in ice. But soldiers are a faithful lot, and prayers call him to skies so far from his own. He doesn't know how many wars it's been. He doesn’t know to how to make them stop.

 

It’s children now. They’re children now. Little boys playing Soldier, never realizing that these bullets are real.

 

Wars pass. Soldiers live and die and call on his name.

 

It takes years before he can do more than answer. Years before he can do more than hold their hands as they die on a battlefield. Prayer after prayer builds his strength.

 

A slip of a key, a frayed rope, a bullet that misses its mark.

 

Years pass. Soldiers call on him. He expects that. And then children do too. Hiding under the bed, in the closet, monsters worse than he'd ever seen prowling pretty houses as children pray to a god that sleeps beneath layers of ice. He’s never felt helpless before.

 

A trip on a stair, a deer on a road, a bruise that is pointed out by a whisper in someone’s ear.

 

He’s learned to work in shadows.

 

Call on the Captain. _He marches with us._

 

Years pass. The legends grow. The soldiers who pray to him aren’t always his, the children who pray to him aren’t always his. But he’s never refused a prayer.

 

The old gods would. He is not a god.

He is a Captain.

 

He hears them coming long before they do. Hears them chip away at the ice, hears them whisper prayers to whatever gods they believe in - science and fame and glory.

 

One even whispers to him.

 

The sun hits him as the whispers fade away, as he watches them move his body out, as he watches them try and wake him up. They’ll succeed eventually. As for now, he has supplicants to attend to.

 

He should have died. Maybe he did.

The old gods are dead. The Captain is a new god.

 

He is the son of war. _Call on the Captain._

 

* * *

 

 

Steve Rogers opens his eyes for the first time in 70 years.

 

There is no war to make his blood sing. Not the way it once did. He is inordinately grateful for this.

 

Soldiers still pray to him. He still answers. _Call on the Captain._

 

They send him out to a battleground, and he can hear the echoes of old wars on the winds.

 

The old gods seem to be causing trouble again.

 

They come for each other, and he misses the simplicity of when the gods stayed firmly in legends and let men do the work, but here they are.

 

 _Be careful_. Natasha says. These people are like gods.

 

And he laughs, because sometimes fate is cruel but more often it simply is, and he laughs sharp and bright and blood at the edges, always, of his grin.

 

“There are more gods than you could ever imagine, Miss Romanoff. But thankfully,” he glances over at the parachutes, but he doesn't need those anymore, now does he? “Most of them don’t dress like that.”

 

The old gods may not be dead, but the new legends are not either.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was written almost a year ago, but it's one of the few marvel fics that i have typed up. I have not seen infinity war or endgame and nothing past Winter Soldier is canon anyways. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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